


Gallows Pole

by heyshalina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Possession, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Michael Possessing Dean Winchester, Post episode: s14e9 The Spear, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, selective/trauma induced mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 22:30:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17374430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyshalina/pseuds/heyshalina
Summary: They’re sitting in the den, some sort of monster movie Dean’s not watching playing lowly on the TV. Jack fiddles with his thumbs, glancing over methodically at how Dean turns the cube in his hands.“What was it like?” Jack asks, softly, throat raspy and afraid. Dean swallows dry spit.“Like being chained to a comet,” he lies, staring at the screen and seeing nothing.





	Gallows Pole

**Author's Note:**

> Canon compliant up until the mid-season premiere. This is not even speculation, they'd never spend this much time on angst and recovery.
> 
> Warnings for depictions of suffocation, PTSD, and nightmares. There's also some depiction of burning and other generic hand-to-hand violence. If I've missed anything please let me know and I'll add it right away.
> 
> This can be read as Dean/Cas or as gen. There's no explicit romantic content, but all interactions are open to interpretation.
> 
> Title comes from the Led Zeppelin song of the same name.

The first time, Dean thought he was drowning. He was bombarded with the noise, the pressure, the pain until he was forced to open his mouth for air, until it pushed him away from the surface, and it started again. He had never stopped struggling, never stopped fighting, knowing that if he could just make it through the continued onslaught, he could break through the water and _get out_. There was an end, and he never lost sight of it, no matter how much water entered his lungs or how turned around he became.

 

This time, though, there is nothing. No sound, no image, no smells or sensations. He floats silently in a dark sea of black, with no stimulation except his burning anger and racing thoughts. He looks around and finds no light, no surface, and when he opens his mouth to give this void a piece of his mind –

 

no air enters his lungs. He gapes like a fish, like a goddamn cartoon, hands rising to his throat to find no pressure there. He forces himself not to panic as he attempts to turn his body around, suspended in a weightless space, the atmosphere sucked from the room. His mind reels to think coherently around the shock and the pain. He tries to sense anything, feeling for any clue that would tell him where the surface was, where _Michael_ was. When he finds nothing, he picks a direction and moves his body, receiving no visual or tactile input and unaware if he is even moving.

 

This feels different than the drowning. Before, his body wasn’t so much affected, just his mind and his will, being pushed back continuously and hit with waves of pain again and again. This is different. Immediately he feels his muscles contest to the lack of air, his lungs burning and lightheadedness begins to set in. He knows he can only survive a couple of minutes without any air, which meant he has only a couple of minutes to find the surface and bust through it.

 

Dean swims. Unconscious of progress, entire body lit up aflame, he swims, trying to reach an end to the expanse around him. After a few minutes he feels his diaphragm spasm, and his mouth opens, finding nothing to fulfill him. Although he can’t see anything, dots begin to dance in front of his eyes. He navigates around the swirling phosphenes, willing, praying for a surface. He pushes his body harder, pushes until his limbs stall, making aborted, jerky movements. He opens his mouth to breathe in water, to scream, to do anything, but nothing comes. There is nothing. Dean lets his body still, the only thing he can feel being the pain radiating throughout him, begging for air.

 

He realizes that Michael could just kill him, now. He has no reason to keep him alive. He had used him, violated him, removed himself just to force his way back in again, just to toy with Dean and make him dream the illusion of freedom. If Dean dies, all Michael would own would be his body. Maybe if he was dead, Sam and Cas would be able to – wouldn’t have to –

 

The pain forces its way under his eyeballs, making his head feel full and close to bursting. He can’t move his limbs, can’t fight toward a nonexistent point of liberation. Dean jerks involuntarily as his diaphragm contracts again, letting his mouth fall open, and waits for the end to come. He’s ready, he has been for awhile. If him dying makes it easier for Michael to be killed, he would welcome it. He would take whatever came his way.

 

Dean waits. And waits. And it doesn’t come.

 

The darkness around him imposes oppressively, not growing, shrinking, or changing in any way. Its sameness is maddening. His ears ring with the pain of suffocation and the stark absence of any noise, even from himself. Soon though, even that fades, and all that remains are the darkness and the pain. The pain that continues, and doesn’t end.

 

After awhile, a new agony emerges, the jolting pangs of hunger ripping through him, and the ache of thirst joining the burn in his mouth and throat. Dean understands what Michael is doing – he is purposefully neglecting his body, and choosing to let Dean feel the effects. There is no moving to a more comfortable position, no calming voice to help him ride through the pain. All he feels is _need_ , and all he receives is nothing.

 

He tries to tune out the pain, but the way it perpetuates makes it impossible to ignore. He thinks vengeful, violent thoughts toward Michael, but then his mind starts to wander, and he forgets what he was angry about in the first place. He thinks of Jack, and the wars he has already fought in so short a time. He thinks of Cas, and wonders if this is what the Empty is like: not a peaceful, silent sleep, but a constant state of pain and darkness. He wonders if Michael has seen the Empty. He thinks of Sam, and how he had been possessed by Lucifer, ripped free from his soul, put back together again, never really the same. He’s softer, now. He’s always hurting. Dean wants to cry, but all it adds is extra pressure in his chest, and he doesn’t know if any tears fall from his cheeks.

 

Dean clutches to hope like a dangling thread, certain that in one way or another, the pain will end. Either his family will save him, or he will die. He waits and keeps waiting, even as his mind becomes foggy and his thoughts disjointed, the hunger tearing through his stomach without a hint of numbness to appease it, his diaphragm and accessory muscles hitching and bucking with pressure and need. His trachea feels raw and bloody, his mouth dry and filled with blisters. He thinks that maybe this isn’t Michael, anymore. Before, he had taunted him, given him hope of freedom, a view of the outside world, before he shoved him down again. Now, he hasn’t heard a thing, hasn’t seen a sliver of light. Maybe he’s already dead. Maybe this is what is meant for him, after a lifetime of pain and failure. Maybe this is Billie’s revenge, a punishment for cheating death too many times: the pain of never dying.

 

Dean feels his hope slowly trickle out of him and be replaced by defeat, making his limbs heavy, the pain more pronounced. There is no time, because the pain never ebbs. When he was drowning, there were moments of peace before it started again. Even in hell, there was reprieve. He would hurt, and he would kill, and he would die, and he would begin again, carved out and remade. Pain with purpose. Even in hell –

 

He thinks of Sam, with eyes black as the darkness. Cas, with sable torment oozing from his nose and ears. He thinks of Michael, and buckles under the pain and fear. He thinks of…the kid, the…

 

He wants to pray for it to end, but can’t form the words in his head. The pain pushes out everything else. It’s achingly familiar, in a way. Always there. That’s the way it’s always been. Just close enough to the edge, never over. If he lets his mind stop, and lets it flood him, it’s almost comforting. It’s almost like an end.

 

.

 

Dean is ripped from the darkness and deposited unceremoniously onto a hard floor, his whole world tipping around him. His body lands like a rag doll on its side, halfway over a holy oil circle lit aflame. The echoes of pain ricochet within him as all of his senses slam into him at once. His eyes flash open only to close shut, the brightness of even the dimly lit room blinding him. Flames begin to lick at his shirt, but he doesn’t feel it, can barely feel the floor. It’s too loud, his ears feeling like they might begin to bleed from the sudden transition from nothing to everything, many voices shouting and the sounds of guns firing, knives landing their mark in flesh. His ears are ringing again and he feels like he’s going to puke. He wants to pass out. It’s too much, where did it all come from, too much.

 

“Dean!” A voice cries, and then he is being moved, pulled out of the holy fire, and the touch alone makes his skin ripple in painful gooseflesh. Just the feeling of hands on his shoulders feels like knives in his skin and in his brain. He wants to shove them off, but when he goes to move his arm, nothing happens.

 

“Dean, oh god,” the voice says, but he doesn’t fully register it. The hands are tapping at him, putting out the fire that had begun to burn through his shirt and into his skin, and Dean can barely take it. He can’t process anything that is happening, nothing but the pain and the noise and the presence of everything, and it’s worse than the darkness. He begs silently for unconsciousness to come, just like he prayed for an end, and nothing changes. He gags, the hot feeling of bile rising out of his raw throat and over his lips just about enough to send him over the edge. “ _Cas_! Dean, it’s okay, we’ve got you now, open your eyes, it’s alright. Please, Dean, stop that, you’re okay now, we’re gonna take you home. Open your eyes. Stop.”

 

Dean doesn’t know what to stop. He wants it all to stop. Another voice is suddenly nearby, another pair of hands. His head feels like it’s going to explode, leak out through his nose. This is worse, this is worse.

 

“Dean, it’s alright,” the new voice says, but he can’t differentiate, they all sound the same, they all hurt. The other noises of fighting have dulled, but just the sound of the crackling fire and the shifting of fabric burns. He tips forward into a body that holds him against it, and the resistance is startling and overwhelming. “He’s gone, Dean. We killed Michael, he’s gone. You’ll be alright.”

 

“Cas, why, how…why is he…”

 

“He is afraid. I think he is hurting.”

 

“No, Cas, don’t we don’t know if –”

 

Dean’s brain works to process why while the tactile stimulation is becoming less overpowering, the noise still hurts his ears and throat. He hears a ragged, low-pitched whine, hitching in pain, keening, gaining and losing volume with every shallow, small breath. It sounds like a wounded animal, scared and close to death. It’s a terrible noise, and it won’t stop. Nothing stops.

 

But then a hand gently presses against his forehead, and everything, somehow, blissfully, goes away.

 

Everything but the pain.

 

.

 

When he closes his eyes he is reminded of the darkness, but when he looks at everything it’s too much. He chooses instead to stare at something bland and boring, his eyes out of focus, ignoring what’s around him. It hurts less that way.

 

The sounds still hurt. He stops making his own sounds, because those also hurt. The voices, when he can understand them, want him to talk, but the thought of raking his raw throat makes his chest clench in panic. He still only takes shallow breaths. He isn’t used to breathing anymore.

 

“Don’t know what Michael _did_ to him –”

 

“Was in there longer than before, maybe –”

 

“You remember Rafael –”

 

“Are we seriously considering brain damage –”

 

The voices try to get him to eat and drink, but it hurts too much looking at the food or forcing it down his throat. Sometimes he lets water pour through his mouth, as even while it hurts it brings a sense of not-pain, too, but twice he’s thrown it back up afterwards, nothing but hot bile dribbling from his lips onto his lap and the floor. One of the voices tries to move him around, shifting his legs and attempting to stretch his arms, murmuring under their breath about muscular atrophy and bed sores, but sometimes it hurts too much and Dean makes the noise again, making the voice tense up and leave abruptly. He’s content to sit up and look at the spot on the wall that hurts the least, one brick a slightly darker rust color than the others. Another voice sometimes comes and tells him stories, the cadence faster and more hopeful, reminiscing tales Dean can’t bear to retain. They don’t seem to understand that listening is painful.

 

He doesn’t want to sleep, because that brings him back to the darkness, and he jolts awake, his muscles shaking and his throat making the noise, but louder and closer to a scream. When that happens, a voice appears, placing a hand on his back or head and whispering in soothing, tolerable tones. He usually doesn’t sleep after that, but the voice stays with him throughout the rest of night, leaving only when Dean assumes is the morning, after they get him to drink a glass of water.

 

Sometimes he drifts, coming back into himself when the lighting in the room is different or he is suddenly somewhere else. There is no time, because nothing ends. He knows that now.

 

He comes into himself and he isn’t in his room anymore. He’s in a chair that moves; one of the voices insisted Dean didn’t stay in the same place all the time, but the lights in the room he usually sat in were bright, illuminating the space without being too overwhelming. Everywhere else had dim corners or weren’t lit at all, which made Dean breathe too fast. It was pathetic: he was afraid of the dark. Sometimes he wants to voice that out loud, but his vocal chords don’t work right, and he either makes a bad noise or doesn’t make a sound at all. This time, though, someone has made sure the whole room is lit, despite the lack of windows, and Dean is positioned with his back near a wall so that no one can come up behind him. A voice is talking to him, gently and lowly enough that is isn’t too loud, as they walk about the room, the same vibe to their movements.

 

“So I know that I was the one that was trying to get you to eat easy food, like boring soup and crackers and shit – you did real well with that broth yesterday, by the way – but I thought, fuck it, if Dean’s gonna eat something it’s gonna be greasy and taste good. You can make fun of me for following the directions for your food so far on a health mom site later.”

 

Dean’s blurry, disjointed world begins to slide into focus. He blinks, looking around the kitchen and _seeing_ it for the first time. He looks at the cans lined up on the shelf, tracing his eyes down the sizzling pan on the stove, and doesn’t feel an overwhelming sense of pain with the image. It still hurts, but it is tolerable. He blinks again and looks at Sam, who is lining up buns on three plates, hunched over a bit and placing lettuce and tomato on top of the bottom buns. He turns and grabs the pan handle, sliding a spatula under the cheeseburgers sitting on the hot metal.

 

“I made one for Jack, too, but I’ll bring it to him in his room, I know you still get overwhelmed when there are more than one of us with you, and that’s okay. We’ll get there, soon if you want I’m sure all four of us could eat dinner together. Cas likes burgers, too, but only really eats them if you or I ask him to with us. Mostly you.”

 

Dean looks at Sam’s hands as he places the burgers on the buns, tops them with condiments and places the top buns on. Watches as he takes one and cuts it into quarters before putting it back on the plate. Looks up at Sam’s hair and slightly ragged appearance as he talks.

 

“And I thought maybe after lunch we could go for a walk, I could take you down to the garage to see Baby. Then we gotta do more stretches, but if you eat the burger they won’t be as hard, you won’t get tired as fast. Really, if you eat any of this it’ll be a…”

 

Sam turns around and stills, looking at Dean. Dean’s hands are minutely clenching and unclenching where they lie on the armrests of the chair, and his eyes blink and look up to meet Sam’s. Sam rests the plate he was holding back on the counter.

 

“Dean?”

 

Dean swallows, wincing a bit at the roughness that remains, blinks again. When he opens his mouth, the block in his throat that is usually there has receded a bit. He moves his lips.

 

“Suh…Sammy.”

 

Sam’s eyes widen and he comes forward, careful not to rush or move too fast. He crouches in front of Dean, hands hovering, face wide open in hope. Dean looks at his brother. The spaces under his eyes are bruised and red, etching into shadows across his face. He’s grown out a beard again. It’s horrible.

 

“Dean?” He asks again.

 

Dean moves his head slightly, breathing through his mouth. His voice is slow and rough, soft around the consonants. His lips barely touch as he speaks. “Sammy.”

 

Sam breathes out sharply, tapping his own knee. His face is lit up, near disbelieving. “Yeah, Dean, it’s Sam, it’s me. Can you hear me, do you understand what I’m saying?”

 

The block is creeping back into Dean’s throat, so he slowly nods instead, keeping his eyes locked on Sam’s face. He’s not sure what he looks like or even if he nodded enough, but Sam turns his head to the side for a moment, running his hand down his face and making a soft sound that’s in between a laugh and a sob.

 

“You have no idea, man…I’m…can you say something again?”

 

Dean thinks about it, and then ever-so-slightly shakes his head no. The block in his throat is back again, and he’s tired. Sam frowns but nods.

 

“That’s alright, it’s just, it was just really good to hear your voice. You don’t need to talk if you don’t feel like you can. Do you want to eat something?”

 

Sam’s really trying, and it’s the first time Dean has really _seen_ Sam in who knows how long, so he nods, and Sam’s face lights up again. He rises to grab the plates and sets them on the table, and then comes to move Dean over, softy narrating his actions the whole time. Like it’s something he’s been doing for awhile, and gotten used to. He puts the one cut into quarters in front of Dean, placing one of the whole ones in front of himself.

 

“Eat as much as you can, man.” Sam says. He puts a hand around his burger but doesn’t move to eat it, his eyes trained on Dean like he’s going to disappear any second. Dean looks down at his burger, and tries to bring his hand around it, but his fingers don’t grip it correctly, and the quarter he had grabbed slides out through his fingers back onto the table. Sam sets down his burger and gets up, grabbing a napkin, a fork, and a knife, before coming back to the table.

 

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Sam assures, and then cuts the burger up into little messy bite-size pieces. He wipes Dean’s hand with the napkin and then holds out the fork to him, handle side first. It takes Dean a minute to get his hand around it, and another to grip it adequately. He stabs the burger bits in disjointed motions, missing half the time and sometimes hitting the corners of his mouth, but Sam doesn’t move to help him or feed him, and for that Dean feels a sense of gratefulness. By the time he’s three-fourths of the way done, he can feel tiredness pressing in on him, and the edges of his vision have begun to blur again. He lets his fork clatter out of his hand onto the plate, and his arm flops back against the rest, his wrist limp and his hand hanging pitifully over his leg. Dean wants to move it, a little ashamed, but he doesn’t. He looks at the carefully chosen not-too-bright-white of the plate, and watches as the world begins to fade away bit by bit. Now that he’s eaten, he’s aware of the sensation of food in his mouth and making its way down his throat, and it’s painful in a way that’s distracting.

 

“Good job, that was a lot more than I expected you to eat,” Sam’s voice is proud, but then he sees Dean’s shifted attention, and frowns. Dean sees it like it’s out of the corner of his eye, despite Sam being in the center of his field of vision. “Wait, Dean, don’t…I just, do you want to go see Baby? Cas? Don’t…don’t go, Dean, wait.”

 

Dean’s been waiting. All there is to do is wait.

 

.

 

“– was _talking_ to me, he looked me in the eyes –”

 

“you mean there’s a chance he’s not –”

 

“– can get him back, we can fix this –”

 

“Dean? Can you look at me? Dean?”

 

.

 

When he jolts awake, arms jerking in muscle spasm, Cas is there. He lays a hand gently on the back of Dean’s neck, thumb casting small sweeps against his damp skin. Dean wasn’t having a nightmare, not really. He just wakes up whenever he reaches deep enough sleep and is acutely aware of it, unable to dream, conscious of the silence and deep darkness around him. When he sleeps, though, there is a sliver of light just beyond his eyes, a promise of escape he almost always takes. He breathes as Cas soothes him, humming quietly under his breath, the noise nearly undetectable. Dean latches his eyes onto the brick on the far wall, listening to Cas as he changes songs. Dean’s hands are shaking, and Cas places another hand over his, lightly tracing the space between his thumb and forefinger. It’s nice. His gaze begins to waver, his vision swimming and blurring over, and for a moment he nearly welcomes it, nearly welcomes the calming numbness that comes over him now when the size of the world is too frightening. A soft film starts to fall over his eyes –

 

_\- he scrubs at his face, his vision swimming. Jack is lying in a hospital bed. Jack is dead. Sam is telling him about Ketch, about the egg. Dean suggests they split up, Dean goes for Kaia’s spear. his posture straightens, and he turns around. he scrubs at his face, his vision –_

“Dean.” Cas is speaking sternly, now, voice hard like he’s said Dean’s name several times. With strength he’s lost, Dean rips the bed sheets away from him, launching up on his feet and out of the door. It’s so fast, reminiscent of his old agility, that Cas is left on the bed, mouth open in shock. He’s breathing too fast, his heartbeat racing, sheer panic coursing through him as he runs through the bunker halls. He’s hit with the need to feel something, anything that isn’t absence or pain. His hand slides against the wood of a door in an attempt to steady himself, leaving behind a smear of cold sweat and fear. He can hear Cas yelling after him, can hear Sam’s door opening, but it’s far away. He turns into the bathroom, nearly falling against the wall and turning on the shower with a flailing hand. He puts his back against the wall, slowly sliding down to the floor as the freezing cold water crashes down onto his head, soaking his clothing. His vision swims again and he screams aloud, hitting the wall with his arm repeatedly. Sam and Cas come into the room, crowding the doorway, and Dean screams again, this time in fear. This is how he got him back, this is how he won, he was _listening_ , and then he shoved Dean down and away, and he can’t go back again, he can’t, can’t face the nothing and the lack of air and the pain, can’t be _stolen_ again, and now he’s back but he’s not and he’s still a human kaleidoscope and decoder ring, refracting secrets onto peering eyes, colorful and traitorous, and it’s too much, it hurts, it’s too _much_.

 

Sam kneels down and turns off the water, a hand on Dean’s shoulder as he quakes. He gently grabs Dean’s arm that he’d been hitting against the wall, holding it to his side. Dean takes his other hand and grabs hold of Sam’s forearm, grip tight enough to bruise, and looks him right in the eyes, no waver in his gaze.

 

“Kill me,” he pleads, the echo of his words bouncing around the nothingness inside his mind. “Please. Kill me.”

 

.

 

Sam knows some sign language from being friends with Eileen. Dean never really picked up much of it, but he knows a couple simple things for when he’s thirsty or wants to go back to his room. It’s helpful for when the block in his throat gets too big and he can’t speak, although he’s pretty sure he’s botched up the signs and just created his own means of communication. No one signs back to him, but he likes it better that way. Jack doesn’t always get it, but Cas and Sam understand him well enough to know he hates feeling disadvantaged, even when he obviously is.

 

Someone’s put on music in the background, coming from a small speaker somewhere in the war room. It’s quiet enough to be soothing, loud enough to be heard. It switches from Metallica to Black Sabbath. Sam must have put together a playlist for him. Dean sits in the moving chair, his hands shaking so bad they’re nearly vibrating. He channels it into a tapping against his leg, rapid and off-beat. Whenever his vision begins to blur, he taps a little harder. Sometimes he does it too roughly, and Cas or Sam steady his hand in theirs before letting him go again. Right now Sam has a stack of books in the crook of his arm, putting them back in their designated spots on the shelves, muttering under his breath.

 

“Okay, _Enmerkar and En-suhgir-ana_ , goes here. _The Enochian Evocation_ , why do we even have this? Most of these books aren’t even good. I told Jack that Stephen King wasn’t a reliable source on the supernatural, you know he checked out _Cycle of the Werewolf_ out of the library? Next he’ll read _Twilight_ and think he’s got vampires down. Can you imagine?”

 

Sam turns, placing a book on the war room table beside Dean. _The Shining_. He turns his head toward it, jerking his chin slightly in questioning.

 

Sam shrugs. “Well, that one’s just a good story. Thought you might want to hear it again later.”

 

The sides of Dean’s lips quirk upwards. He does like that book, not that he’d ever admit to reading for fun. Sam knows him too well. Sam taps at Dean’s shoulder, motioning for him to lean forward, and he does; Sam shucks Dean’s flannel from his shoulders, revealing the t-shirt underneath and the swath of gauze around his left arm. He picks up a first aid kit off of another chair and balances it on his leg, steadily taking the bandages off from Dean’s skin. Some of the tape and the healing scabs from the burn stick to the bandages, puckering and painful, but Dean doesn’t acknowledge it. He keeps tapping his hand on his leg as Sam works, staring off at the far wall but blinking rapidly. His lips trace the lyrics to the song playing softly in the background. _Comfortably Numb._ He scoffs through his nose.

 

After he finishes redressing his burn, Sam goes to help Dean stretch his legs, locking the chair in place and then smoothly rotating his ankle.

 

“You think you could let Cas heal you now?” Sam asks. “Before, you were a little too freaked out, you wouldn’t let us. You don’t want to get an infection.”

Dean’s lips keep moving silently, minutely. _There is no pain, you are receding. A distant ship, smoke on the horizon._

 

Sam gently pushes his leg up, and something pops in his hip. It makes Dean cough, and he blinks, looking back at his brother.

 

“Before,” he croaks, and Sam pauses in the stretch, looking at him. Dean can’t quite get out the word _hell_ , so he points down at the floor. Sam seems to get it. “It was here.”

 

Dean motions to the center of his chest, where he imagines his soul is somewhere. Hell messed with his psyche and with his soul, but when he was dragged topside everything worked fine. His body, his brain, they were all more or less in perfect working order.

 

“This time,” Dean continues, and Sam is staring at him intently. He points to his head, and then flicks his hand toward the rest of his body. “Messed me up…here.”

 

Sam’s expression turns stormy, and he stands from where he was sitting, walking to the end of the table. He grabs his beer and leans an arm against the wall, breathing. Dean’s hand keeps tapping and he waits. It takes Sam a good few minutes to speak.

 

“We killed him,” Sam says. “We killed Michael. I just which I could have done it sooner. Slower. I’m sorry, Dean.”

 

Dean nods slightly, wishing Sam wouldn’t get so broken up about it. It happened, and they got him out, and that was enough. It wasn’t worth feeling sorry over, it wasn’t Sam’s fault Dean was like this now, anyway. He wants to say it’s alright, that he forgives his brother, that he did everything he could, but all that comes out is “Sammy.”

 

Sam turns to face him, staring for a moment, and Dean’s about to think that he’s made Sam mad when his face breaks in a strained smile and he comes back to the chair. He sits down and picks up Dean’s other leg to continue stretching.

 

After the stretches, Sam gets him a glass of water, and then grabs a few guns and settles down into his own chair to clean them. Dean listens to the music and zones out a bit, drifting away to the dim lights of the room. When he comes back into himself, he’s still in the same chair, but Sam is holding _The Shining_ in his hands, reading aloud. Dean blinks slowly, annoyed and terrified that he’d lost time again. He looks down at his hand and as his awareness comes back the trembling turns back into tapping against his leg. Sam looks up over the book slyly, one eyebrow raised, but doesn’t stop reading. Dean stares at his lap, frowning. Two other people enter the room, which makes his hackles raise, but he doesn’t move from his spot. Sam stops reading, though, which makes his mood even worse.

 

After a minute, it occurs to him that someone is standing in front of him, waiting patiently. Dean lifts his head to see Jack standing there, a Rubik’s cube held in his outstretched hand. Dean stares at it, breathing through his mouth. He quirks an eyebrow, which is obviously enough recognition for Jack, who launches into speech.

 

“I saw you were tapping your hand,” Jack says with a complete lack of subtlety. “And Sam and Cas say you get afraid when it’s too quiet or dark. I don’t know what… _Michael_ did to you, but I thought maybe it would help to be able to do something with your hands.”

 

Dean stares at the cube for another minute, and then opens his palm. Jack places the toy in his hand and Dean plays with it. It takes a little while for the trembling to die down enough that he can turn the sides, and the bright colors are a little much, but the simple act of turning it is calming. He doesn’t feel equipped to try to figure it out (he doesn’t know if he’d even have the patience for it normally) but it makes it easier for him to lift his gaze. Jack is beaming at Dean’s continued movements, and over his shoulder Dean sees Cas and Sam looking at him.

 

A sudden _need_ hits Dean hard enough that he stops breathing for a second; his hands stall on the cube, and Sam rises halfway out of his seat. It’s over as soon as it came, though, and Dean continues turning the cube, feeling like he’s been drenched in ice water. Cas frowns at him.

 

“How long?” Dean asks, voice ragged and weak. Jack’s eyebrows hit the kid’s fucking hairline. Sam sits back down in his chair, but looks on edge. No one answers him, and the _need_ comes back, hitching in his back, between his shoulder blades. He forces himself to breathe shallowly through his mouth, and clenches his eyes shut. “How long?”

 

Sam sighs. “Since you’ve been back, or since…”

 

Dean doesn’t answer him, just opens his eyes and stares. Sam and Cas share a look, and the former sighs again. “We got you back three weeks and two days ago. Michael had you for six months.”

 

“And four days,” Jack adds quietly.

 

Six months. This time, he had Dean for six months. Adding the month or so he had him the first time, he’d been Michael’s chew toy for the better part of a year.

 

This time. This time. What about next time?

 

“He’s dead, Dean.” Cas says. “He’s not getting you back again. I swear it.”

 

Six months of darkness. Of stifling, sickening suffocation. Of waiting, and waiting, and waiting. He had made him think he was already dead. He had made him think _that_ was what was waiting for him, he had made him think he deserved it. Did Cas hear him, when he was still praying? Or did Michael just laugh?

 

“How?” Dean asks.

 

“Are you sure you want to hear all this now?”

 

“Tell me,” Dean says, his voice slow, like dragging steel wool over gravel. “How.”

 

He listens as Sam begins the story, starting when Michael repossessed Dean in Kansas City. How the city had dissolved into chaos, and even with emergency evacuations a large fraction of the population was turned. They’d been forced to flee, fighting their way out of the building and the city, leaving Dean behind. Cas had been wounded, unable to heal Jack and Sam of their own injuries, and they’d had to hole up in the bunker to recover. Garth tried to help them find out anything about Michael, but with Michael’s influence on him they’d all agreed it wasn’t worth the risk, and he’d fled to somewhere remote to hide until it was all over. After that, it was just recon and desperate, blind hope for a clue, a tip off, for any sort of win.

 

Cas and Sam are notably silent about how they personally dealt with the defeat of having Dean taken again. Dean doesn’t need to know. He sees the strain in Castiel’s face, the bags under Sam’s eyes, the return of his terrible beard, and understands. He put them through hell.

 

At some point his entire body starts to tremble, and Cas retreats for a moment before bringing back a blanket from Dean’s bed. Cas wraps it around Dean’s body, hands gentle as he drapes the fabric over. He leaves to get Dean a cup of tea, and then takes over for Sam when he returns. Apparently after months of research, Sam and Rowena (with the enlisted help of Charlie) found a last-ditch, improbable spell that could be used to kill Michael, if they managed to capture him. By this point four major and many more smaller cities had been sieged by Michael’s monsters, and they were all still currently quarantined from the rest of the country, borders overseen by the military. The cat was out of the bag about monsters. Hell, they were on the evening news.

 

After six months, they found their win in some intel about where Michael was going to show up, somewhere outside of Reno, of all places. They trapped him with a reinforced holy oil fire circle, fighting off his goons with the help of Mary, Bobby, and some other alternate reality refugee hunters.

 

“The spell split Michael from his vessel so that we could kill him without killing you,” Sam explains, and Dean flinches from the way he says _his vessel_. It sounds so detached, so impersonal. So wrong. “But it kept him corporeal, so he could be killed. To be honest, I didn’t think it was going to work.”

 

“I found the blade we used in a Sumerian tomb, with the aid of Ketch,” Cas says. “It was similar to the archangel blade. Rowena fortified it with magic, although I don’t think it actually did anything. I think we were…lucky.”

 

Lucky. Yeah, right.

 

“There were two of you!” Jack says. “It was just like something on TV. Sam chose which one was the real you, and got it right, and killed Michael.”

 

Killed Michael. Just like that. Lucky.

 

“After Michael was expelled, you were…unresponsive,” Cas says. “We took you back here to recover, and everyone else went to Sioux Falls. Jody, Mary, and Bobby have begun to repurpose our old Bobby’s salvage yard into another base for hunters to stay at. They’ve been there since.”

 

“Mom?” Dean asks, the only word he’s been able to get out the whole time. Sam’s face flashes through several emotions.

 

“We can call her, if you want,” he says. “I didn’t know if you’d be ready. You…the way you were, after, we all thought maybe it was best to wait, to see if you got better.”

 

If he got better. Killed Michael. Lucky. Dean huffs through his open mouth, a disbelieving, growling sound. Sam and Jack share a look, and Cas frowns at him. Dean stares at his shaking hands, the Rubik’s cube sitting still in his fingers. He’s paid attention for so long, and everything is starting to hurt. He remembers the fact that he spent six months suffocating, doing fucking nothing but dying while his family suffered and fought, and the breath leaves his throat.

 

“Dean?” Sam asks, cadence itching with trepidation. “Will you let Cas heal you, now? Please?”

 

Dean thinks of angel grace flowing through his veins, remembers wounds stitching themselves back together in milliseconds, thinks of the binds that tied him in stark nothingness and took his breath away, took away his ability to choose, his ability to _die_.

 

He shakes his head, firm. Jack’s eyebrows are furrowed, and everyone is frowning. No one says a word.

 

They all stare at him for a long time. Dean doesn’t know how long, because there is no time, and nothing ends. Eventually, he motions that he wants to go back to his room, and Sam sighs.

 

“I’ll bring you your tea,” he says, even though they both know it’s cold.

 

.

 

“Was too much to unload on him all at once –”

 

“He asked us, he wanted to hear –”

 

“Still don’t know what he _did_ –”

 

“He’ll call her when he’s ready –”

 

.

 

Dean’s hands tremble where they grip the sides of the sink. That seems to be happening a lot, lately. The shaking. He wonders if he shook in the darkness, but just couldn’t tell. Sometimes he forgets here, too.

 

He looks up into the mirror. He doesn’t look like he expected. He feels like he should look like he spent six months chained at the bottom of a pitch black hole, fed no food or water, subsisting on the leakage from the ground and the failing atmosphere. Rugged, run over, beards and scars and Sam-length hair.

 

He doesn’t. His face only has the slightest hint of stubble, and there’s no grime or rot anywhere. Sam might have cleaned him, shaved his face, but Michael probably kept it relatively trim. Both realizations fill him with shame. He’s a little gaunt, eyes sunken and cheekbones pronounced, face thinner than he’s used to. His hair isn’t long, but it’s not short, either; his mind flashes an image of how Michael liked to wear it. He would have let it grow a little longer just so he could coif it just right, have it stay perfectly.

 

He turns and dry heaves over the toilet, steeling himself against the wall and the porcelain as he shuts his eyes and waits for the world to stop spinning. Then he turns back to the mirror, grabbing the electric razor and turning it on. He wipes his mouth and spits into the sink. He makes sure to keep eye contact with himself the entire time.

 

When he’s done he makes his way to the kitchen, steps purposeful if not a little halted. Sam is sitting at the table, laptop open in front of him, beer in hand. Dean strides to the table, pulling out the chair closest to the wall and falling into it.

 

Sam stares at him, his gaze calculating. The muscles in his jaw work, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Dean pretends not to notice. “Hey, it’s nice to see you on your feet.”

 

Dean nods. Sam quirks an eyebrow.

 

“Nice haircut,” he says. “A little short, huh?”

 

Dean runs a hand over the cut. It is shorter, not quite buzzed but not as long as it was before. Or even before that. He wants to explain to Sam that he needs something different than during Michael, than even _before_ Michael, needs to feel like this all wasn’t some sick joke, but when he goes to speak he just grinds his teeth. A wave of frustration hits him and he crosses his arms, forefinger tapping away at his opposite bicep.

 

“We can get rid of that stupid chair, if you want,” Sam says. “If you think you can walk. If you start eating more, you’ll gain some weight back, and we can start with some exercises to build up strength. Maybe the tremor will get better once that happens, who knows.”

 

Dean nods, and just to make Sam happy and annoyed, leans over and steals the slice of banana bread sitting on the table next to his laptop. He takes a big bite and Sam huffs, looking back at the screen. After a moment he returns his gaze to Dean again, who gestures to the computer, making a _go on_ motion with his hand. Sam smirks.

 

“So get this,” Sam says, leaning back in his chair. “There’s been a mauling in Montana. Jody thinks it’s a Waheela, but around there the Ioway legend is of a Shunka Warakin…”

 

Dean huffs, leaning back against the wall. He watches his brother read and talk, feeling a small smile come over his face.

 

.

 

He calls Mary. She does most of the talking, but it’s nice to hear her voice. She tells him about renovating the salvage yard, about living with Bobby, working with Jody and the girls. She says he misses him, and he smiles, fiddling with his sheets. He gets enough words out to say he’s getting better, and he’d like to see her again soon. Says he loves her. Mary says it back, but then says she has to go.

 

He calls her again a few days later. It goes to voicemail.

 

.

 

He awakens with a start, jackknifing into a sitting position, eyes frantically searching the wall for anything to latch onto. Cas is there, murmuring and rubbing gentle circles on his back, but it’s not helping. It’s too dark, he can’t find the different-colored brick in the wall. Blood is pulsing in his ears and he can’t hear what Cas is saying, can’t hear the white noise machine they’ve put on in his room, can’t hear anything. There is nothing. Even the light from under the door begins to peel away into darkness, he can barely feel the hand on his covered skin. He’s covered in sweat but he can’t feel it, can’t feel anything but pain and he can’t _breathe_.

 

“Come on, Dean,” A voice says, but Dean doesn’t register it. His throat is scraping raw, vibrating with parched noise but he can’t hear it, no one can hear him. “Don’t do this, Dean, breathe.”

 

“Castiel, what –”

 

“Sam, perhaps this is not the best time for –”

 

“Dean, look at me. No, look at me. Stop. Breathe with me, come on, stop making that noise, we’re here with you. You’re here now. You’re not with him anymore. You’re safe, I promise, you’re doing better, look at me.”

 

The darkness begins to waver, swirling and breaking apart. It’s still too dark, but there are outlines and shapes, the smallest beginnings of sounds. He exhales sharply, a horrible, strained noise leaving with the air.

 

“That’s it, good, breathe with me now. Breathe. Cas, whatever you’re doing, it’s helping, keep doing it. Good job, Dean, come on.”

 

He feels a hand on his back, rubbing softly up and down between his shoulder blades in time with the voice’s deep breaths. His breath begins to return, the shapes and outlines becoming sharper. Beyond the blood in his ears he hears waves crashing onto shores. His breath hitches and he hiccups, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his legs.

 

“Breathe, Dean. You’re okay. You’re not there, you’re safe now. You’re not going back there, I promise.”

 

 _– his vision swims, and he scrubs at his face. his posture straightens, he turns around_ –

 

A sense of hopelessness, of defeat, of _need_ hits Dean so hard his back muscles buckle before tensing up again. Dean wishes the voices wouldn’t lie to him. The darkness, the waiting, the continuous death without reprieve, that was what was waiting for him. It was forever, it was inevitability. Michael, no Michael, it’s what would always come for Dean. Endless pain, with no hope of freedom.

 

“Oh, Dean.” A voice says, and Dean feels his breath hitch in his chest, caged noises breaking down into soft, soundless sobs. The hand on his back stalls, and tears begin to flow from his eyes, dripping downwards before falling onto his forearms, dampening the bedspread. “Geez. What – Dean, it’s okay, you’re safe. Look at me, please.”

 

Dean tries to, but ends up breaking loose in a sob again, staring at the sheets as tears drip onto them, spreading out in dark circles.

 

The voice becomes strained. “He. What did he – I can’t do this.”

 

“Sam,” another voice says sternly, but the first voice is already gone, fleeing with the sharp bang of a door and heavy steps down the hallway. Soon, though, that voice is replaced by another, further away by the doorway.

 

“What’s happening, is everything alright?”

 

“Jack, maybe you should just go back to your –”

 

The hackles on the back of Dean’s neck raise suddenly, a swift rage building up inside his chest and replacing the defeat. He raises his head, snarling, and yells, hands going up to grab the sides of his head with the rocking force of the noise. The shout is wracked with anger, coated in fear, and the voice at the door quickly leaves. Too many voices, it’s too much. Dean yells again, but the sound breaks off into a shaky breath, his entire body in tremor. The voice beside him doesn’t say a single word as Dean relearns to breathe, finds the brick in the wall and latches onto it like a lifeboat. Doesn’t say anything for hours as the whole-body shakes reign themselves in to become erratic, controlled beats of his fingers on his knee, as the minute rocking stills and his muscles relax. Only breathes steady breaths for Dean to emulate, never halting in rhythm or depth. At dawn, the voice rises and leaves, quickly returning to make Dean drink a glass of water.

 

.

 

They’re sitting in the den, some sort of monster movie Dean’s not watching playing lowly on the TV. Jack fiddles with his thumbs, glancing over methodically at how Dean turns the cube in his hands.

 

“What was it like?” Jack asks, softly, throat raspy and afraid. Dean swallows dry spit.

 

“Like being chained to a comet,” he lies, staring at the screen and seeing nothing.

 

.

 

Sam finds him in the war room, book open on the table holding Jack’s Rubik’s cube. His hands rest on his lap but are always turning the block, a continuous, unguided motion. Dean warily raises his gaze, trying not to bring attention to the book he’s reading.

 

“You doing research for fun, now?” Sam asks. Dean rolls his eyes. As if.

 

“Gotta be good for something, huh?” Dean says. They’re not exactly the words that he wanted to get out, but it makes Sam twist up his lips, so that means he’s more focused on Dean’s self-deprecation than what Dean is actually investigating. Fine by him.

 

“Come on,” Sam says, gesturing for Dean to get up. Dean rises from his seat, setting the Rubik’s cube down and swinging the book on archangel lore shut. He pushes it toward the miscellaneous pile of books at the end of the table to get it lost in the crowd. He follows Sam out into the hallway, Sam walking slow enough that Dean can keep up without issue.

 

“What were you reading?” Sam asks. Bastard.

 

“Catching up on my Nicholas Sparks novels,” Dean says gruffly. Sam huffs at the obvious lie, but doesn’t push any further. It’s not like Dean is going to be honest and admit he’s been attempting to research ways angels come back to life or cheat death. Sam would be upset that Dean doesn’t trust their whole killing-Michael story, and if Cas found out…he’s not ready for that level of a fight just yet.

 

“Where are we goin’?” Dean asks. Sam turns and walks down a half flight of stairs. Dean follows, using the railing.

 

“Thought you might want to get back to doing regular stuff, since you’re starting to feel better,” Sam says. “Tomorrow, we can do some marksmanship and easy combat training. Today, we wash the car.”

 

Sam opens the door to the garage, holding the door to let Dean through. Baby is in the middle of the room, buckets of soap water, wax, sponges, and brushes set up on a tarp on the concrete. Sam’s taken Dean down to see the car since he’s been back, but he never was really in the mindset to appreciate it. Dean vaguely remembers Sam’s disappointment at Dean’s lack of response, or even of recognition, in those first few weeks. He decides to make up for it now.

 

“What have you _done_ to my car?” He exclaims, walking toward the Impala. “I’m gone for six months and you run her into the ground?”

 

Sam laughs. “There’s just a little bit of mud, Dean. You don’t need to get so worked up about it.”

 

He absolutely does, for both their sakes, and they both know it. “Of course I do, because it’s obvious _some people_ don’t care.”

 

Dean coughs into his elbow, rubbing a bit at his throat. Even though it’s become easier to talk, he still can’t shake the rawness in his throat, like he really had been suffocating for all that time. Sam tries to make him drink tea with honey in it or whatever, but Dean’s stomach has felt steady enough that he refuses, opting for coffee or beer instead. Feels more normal.

 

He runs a hand over the Impala’s hood, and then grabs a sponge, soaking it in the soapy water. Sam smiles and does the same, moving for the back of the car. Music starts playing from somewhere in the garage (Dean can never figure out where Sam hides the freaking speakers, they must be the size of a thumbtack), and Dean slides into a rhythm, drawing the sponge over the metal of the hood methodically. They get off every bit of dust and mud, scrub out every splash of blood, and then rinse her clean. Sam asks him if he wants to stop after that, Dean’s arms beginning to quiver, but he shakes his head no and continues. He takes the time and care to wax the outside of the car, then tops off the air in the tires for good measure. Sam leaves and grabs them both a beer, and they lean against the workbench in the garage, taking in the sight of the beautiful, clean car.

 

“You good?” Dean asks. He knows Cas and Sam have been hiding things from him, what’s been going on outside the bunker’s walls, what all the other hunters are doing. He knows that even as he’s been helping Dean recover, Sam’s still maintained his role as head hunter honcho, organizing people this way and that. He hears him talking on the phone a lot, voice understanding or impatient and harsh. Sometimes Jack slips into Sam’s room to help. Dean’s stayed clear.

 

“I’m fine, Dean.” Sam huffs. He pauses for a few seconds, taking a pull from his bottle. “I’m really glad you’re back, man. Really back. It’s been a hard year.”

 

Dean stuffs down his anxiety, the voice that promises he won’t be free for long, and nudges Sam with his elbow.

 

“We always make it through somehow,” Dean says, ignoring the fact he doesn’t believe his own words. “Soon I’ll be tip top.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam breathes out a laugh. “Back to normal, with our network of alternate reality hunters and our half-human ward.”

 

“How’s Jack doing?” Dean asks. Besides sitting next to him wordlessly in the war room or the kitchen, Dean hasn’t interacted with him much. He feels bad, but the kid is somehow especially draining, particularly when Dean’s already feeling worn out from a flashback or a nightmare. He doesn’t tell him that, though, so he’s afraid the kid thinks he’s doing something wrong.

 

“He’s good,” Sam says. “Been helping a lot with the other hunters. They trust him. He’s gotten better at combat, we’re working on knives now. He missed you. He still misses you.”

 

Dean’s not quite sure what to say to that, and he’s already talked a lot today, so he just nods and drinks his beer. He looks at the concrete floor of the garage. He wants to ask a million more questions, wants to be brought back into the loop. Wants his body to be fit and work right again, so he can launch back into the fight and fix what he’s done. He wants to know about Mary, and Bobby, Jody, Claire, dark Kaia, for fuck’s sake. Wants to know who he knows that died because of him.

 

“What’s it like, out there?” he asks instead, voice grating. It gets like that when he’s running out of words, now. He forces them out anyway. He has to know.

 

Sam stays silent for a moment, staring at the Impala’s bumper. He takes a big, shaky breath, and then gets up, grabbing their beers and heading toward the door.

 

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll make dinner.”

 

.

 

The next day Dean feels like shit warmed over, but gets up anyway. He takes a mug of coffee from Sam, tapping the edge of his palm on his knee to try to warm up his sore muscles. Sam says good morning, but Dean just glares at the hardwood of the table. He’s not sure if him not talking is a choice, brought on by his bad mood, or a physical side effect of hanging out in Michael’s sidecar, but either way no words make their way out of his throat. Sam pulls his lips to the side but keeps typing on his laptop.

 

“You up for some training today?” Sam asks.

 

Dean frowns, but nods. Sam looks at him. “You should eat something first.”

 

Sam rises from his seat and moves toward the cabinet, grabbing some cereal. He pours Dean a bowl and slides it in front of him, handing him a spoon. Dean dips the spoon in and shoves the Cheerios around for a bit. He wants to ask for honey, because regular Cheerios are bland as hell, but that seems too needy. Food is fuel. He shoves a bite into his mouth.

 

Sam meets his eye again when he finishes the cereal, and Dean waves a small circle around his head, face interrogative. Sam smirks.

 

“Cas?” Dean nods. “He left this morning. Went out to meet Bobby and some of the hunters, helping with a case near Lincoln. He’ll be back later.”

 

Dean tries to swallow his bad mood, growing worse at Sam’s words. That morning hadn’t been the first time he’d woken up without Cas there. The angel has been staying with him less and less as he gets better. It’s not like Dean blames him – Cas has got better things to do then sit around and serve Dean water and blankets when he has a breakdown. He just has the feeling that Cas has been avoiding him in the daytime, especially now that most days Dean can hold a simple conversation. It’s almost like he doesn’t want to talk to him. Like he’s hiding something from him.

 

Cas isn’t as good of a liar as Sam.

 

“Jack will join us, though,” Sam says. “He’s eager to help get you back on his feet, and prove himself. You’ll wanna change out of those sweatpants, though.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes. He wasn’t going to stroll into the gym with his sweatpants, robe, and slippers. He’s not an idiot.

 

“I’ve gotta make a few calls first, check up on Maggie and some other hunters,” Sam stands from the table, closing his laptop and tucking it under his arm. “Meet you in there?”

 

Dean nods, mirroring Sam’s movements. He brings his cereal bowl over to the sink, and is about to muster up the energy to quip at Sam for all the forgotten dishes, but when he turns around his brother is already gone. He turns and washes all the dishes, slotting them into the drier rack and taking a sponge to wipe down the counter. Sam has enough on his mind.

 

When he gets to the small gym the Men of Letters have set up in one of the larger rooms, Jack is already there, doing a butterfly stretch on the mat. A pang of how young Jack is strikes Dean in the chest. The kid looks like he’s getting ready for JV basketball practice, not combat and weapons training with seasoned killers. Jack smiles up at him, and Dean manages a small grin.

 

“Sam said he’d be awhile,” Jack says. “Something came up, apparently. Do you want to start with some hand to hand? Sam’s taught me the basics.”

 

Dean nods, immediately assuming a fighting stance. Jack huffs out a laugh and motions to the mat.

 

“Stretch first, Dean.”

 

Fine. Whatever. He goes through the motions of the stretches, following Jack’s lead and listening to the kid ramble on about whatever book he’s reading now, and his interactions with the librarian in Lebanon (which is decidedly _not_ like their experience in McCook). If Jack has an issue with Dean not talking despite doing better recently, he doesn’t say anything, which both relieves and bothers him. Once Jack has decided they’ve stretched enough, like, ten centuries later, he jumps up and bounces into a sparring stance. Dean gets up a little more slowly, shifting on his feet a little more subtly. Jack seems to be waiting for him, so Dean smirks and curls his fingers inward, urging him on.

 

Jack lunges, and Dean dodges, faking over the kid’s head to deliver a pulled blow to his back. Jack turns and lets Dean take the offensive, but the latter fakes again and gets behind him, delivering a heel to the back of Jack’s knee and sending him to the mat. Jack recovers quickly, fast and agile, and gets in a couple jabs to Dean’s sides. He’s good, a lot better than the uncoordinated mess of limbs he’d been when Dean was around before, and Dean is impressed with the evidence of training and hard work Jack has put in.

 

They fall into a rhythm, volleying punches and kicks, helping each other up when the other goes down. Jack’s trying his hardest, but is still delivering soft blows, which Dean likes. He’s not back to tip-top shape, but he’s still got skill and instinct. Sparring with Sam would have been frustrating, as his brother would have obviously been dumbing down his abilities for Dean’s sake. The way Dean’s body is, he’d say him and Jack are almost on level playing fields, which is what Dean needs to get back in the saddle. Maybe he would stomach those protein shakes Sam has been shoving at him to regain muscle mass. He forgot how much fun sparring could be, when he wasn’t fighting for his life. If he worked at it, he could be back in shape in a couple weeks, maybe three. Then he could leave the bunker, could go on hunts again and feel like maybe things could be back to normal, saving people instead of hurting them, hunting things instead of being –

 

“Dean,” Jack says, and Dean is shocked out of his thoughts. Jack’s face is serious, cautious, eyebrows furrowed and lips pouted. Dean shifts his gaze and sees Jack’s fingers curled around his wrist. His hand is outstretched, about two inches from Jack’s forehead. Dean blinks. He had just been going on automatic, hadn’t even been thinking, and then –

 

_– his vision swims, and he scrubs at his face –_

“Dean,” Jack says again, and Dean’s eyes flitter from Jack’s face, to the door, to his hand, and back again, continuous and erratic. “It’s okay. You’re not there, he doesn’t have you. I’m gonna let go of your wrist. We can keep going. You’re okay.”

 

Dean wants to laugh. Jack’s been getting his consolations from Sam and fucking Hallmark. Probably shouldn’t…probably shouldn’t let him watch anymore Lifetime movies. He tries to clear his head but it keeps clouding in fear. His fingers begin to tremble beyond Jack’s grip.

 

 _– he scrubs at his face_ –

 

Lucky. Just like that.

 

He rips his hand out from Jack’s grasp, turning and walking briskly to the door. Jack yells after him, following him out of the room, but stops after Dean keeps walking, not breaking into a run or showing any outward panic. He thinks he passes Sam’s door, because Jack stops and turns to knock on it instead of following Dean further. He keeps walking, going past his room and the bathroom and descending downstairs to the shooting range. Slamming the door behind him brings no comfort. He grabs a Glock and loads it, dropping ammunition two times before he gets it in. He turns and fires at the target, not bothering to put on gloves, ear muffs, or eye protection. He unloads a whole clip and then closes his eyes, breathing. He reaches down and grabs another clip.

 

He shoots until his hands stop shaking, and then keeps shooting until they shake again.

 

.

 

He steals Sam’s laptop because he has no clue where his ended up. It’s not in his room, the den, or the library, so he’s led to believe either Jack has it or they hid it from him so he wouldn’t do what he’s doing right now. He goes into Sam’s room while he’s showering, looking up news stories on an incognito tab and quickly printing them out before tossing the computer back where it was and retreating to his room. He spends the next three hours combing over updates on the cities targeted by Michael’s monsters, absorbing facts on turn numbers, death count, effects on the economy, everything. He hides them all in his desk, under an old Lawrence newspaper and a couple of photos. He grabs his remaining papers and makes his way to the war room. Luckily, both Sam and Cas are sitting at the table. He throws the papers down on top of Sam’s keyboard, taking a seat in the opposite chair. Sam picks the papers up and frowns, looking at him.

 

“What’s this?” Sam asks.

 

“Hunt,” Dean replies, leaning back in his chair. “I’m sick of this unemployment shit.”

 

“I don’t know if that is wise,” Cas says. The corners of Dean’s mouth flicker.

 

“It’s a simple salt and burn in Glen Elder,” he says. “Hop, skip, and a jump away.”

 

“Dean,” Sam slides a hand down his face, exasperated. “You’re recovering–”

 

“I’ve been recovering,” Dean asserts, ignoring how his voice is still halting and gravely. “Been training for a few weeks now. Need to get outta here.”

 

Cas and Sam share a look that sparks something in Dean’s chest, something that’s been building, that makes him feel like a caged animal under surveillance. Like he’s being hidden.

 

“Where did you get this?” Sam asks. He looks nervous.

 

“Not an idiot,” Dean says. Cas’ eyebrows furrow and unfurrow in an aggravating tell. “I ain’t asking. Don’t need your permission.”

 

He stands from his chair, snatching the papers back from off the table. No one says a word. He turns and heads toward the hallway, fist clenching and unclenching at his side.

 

“You can come babysit me if you want,” he grinds out venomously. “I’ll be leaving in an hour.”

 

He retreats into the hallway, walking away from the uneasy silence behind him. Neither Sam nor Cas have been talking to him recently, ever since he’s recovered more. Cas doesn’t stay with him, Sam shaved his beard. They don’t even play music in the background anymore, letting the silence overtake the bunker and make the shadows in the corners appear more sinister and prevalent. It’s like it doesn’t matter that Dean’s helped by it, that he still _needs_ it. The only time he hears the calming white noise is from the speaker in his room when he goes to bed, and he turns it on himself, now. They all talked to him more when he couldn’t talk back, but now he’s a real boy and they don’t need to cater to him anymore. Dean didn’t think he’d be worth more to his family when he was fucking invalid. Figures.

 

He slams the door to his bedroom a little too loudly, and instantly regrets it. Great, now they’re going to think he’s a moody teenager. He probably missed Jack’s most rebellious phase while he was gone, but the kid was already annoying and stubborn when he didn’t get his way. He remembers dealing with Sam as his brother went through high school; he remembers the disconnect, and the distrust, the understanding waning away more and more each day until Sam finally walked out the door. He remembers John following suit soon after, leaving Dean alone in hotel rooms with two beds. He remembers staying for too long in bars, walking aimlessly down small town streets, sitting in graves after salt and burns, daring the police to come and find him there. He remembers feeling lost, and scared, and hopeless. Much like he felt when Sammy died. Much like he felt when he was adrift in a sea of his own body with a psychopath at the helm. Much like he was feeling now.

 

Dean lets out a noise of frustration, choked back as to not echo through the bunker halls. He slams his hand on the brick wall, letting his forehead softly follow. He breathes for a minute, and then turns and rips his duffel out from under the bed. He throws an extra days’ worth of clothes in with his handgun, just in case. He heads to the kitchen, grabbing water bottles and protein bars, and whips up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich he wolfs down on the way to the garage. When he gets there, tossing his bag into the back and sliding in on worn-leather seats, Cas is in the passenger seat. Sam is nowhere to be seen.

 

Dean leans forward and turns the ignition, slowly pulling out of the garage and onto the dirt driveway that leads to the bunker. Weeds and tall grasses have overtaken the road, which is helpful for the whole staying secret business, but terrible for keeping debris out of Baby’s wheel tracks. Cas doesn’t say anything as they drive down and turn onto a Lebanon side road, doesn’t even look at Dean. He just stares forward through the windshield, muscles working in his jaw.

 

“What’s your hourly pay?” Dean asks sardonically. He tries to force his left hand to stay still around the steering wheel. “Do you get to use the TV and eat free pizza if you keep me from getting into the cookie jar?”

 

“You picked the easiest case you could possibly find,” Cas says. “A barely vengeful spirit of a grandmother whose wishes in her will were not followed by her family. You could take care of this in your sleep. You do not need me watching over you.”

 

“Oh, yeah? Then why did you come?” Dean bites, and he can’t help if his tone is passive aggressive, a little hurt. He hasn’t been hiding his emotions as well since he got back. Hasn’t been hiding anything, except for the big things.

 

Cas turns and looks at him. Dean’s right hand plucks at the worn-in grey tee shirt he’s wearing underneath his flannel and jacket. There’s a hole near the collarbone that he hadn’t noticed before.

 

“You seem…lonely,” Cas says, and a roll of nausea rolls through Dean’s stomach. “And you have not been out of the bunker in two months. The world is a bit different now.”

 

“How so?” Dean asks. Cas looks away from him again, pausing.

 

“We are only traveling one county,” he says. “It will be fine.”

 

It’s not an answer. Dean can’t tell if it’s reflux or anger that boils up toward his throat, making his body burn. He thinks of the news stories he poured over earlier that day – the death, the dying, the monsters, the fear of the public. Terror and confusion, still spreading through towns like a plague, military keeping in innocent people that were turned with a whim of Dean’s hand. Photographs in newspapers that capture the horrors, a well-dressed, stiff figure sometimes in the background, always foreboding, always out of focus. Seventeen cities, radiating out of Kansas City across the country like a sickness spreading from its source, a heartbeat pulsing poisoned blood throughout the body. Making the Midwest a goddamn dead zone. Dean’s hands begin to shake harder, and he feels his own jaw muscles work. He wants to yell at Cas, wants to demand the truth, wants to terrify, to threaten, to unleash the words building in the space below his Adam’s apple, but he remains silent. He shoots his hand forward and turns on the music, letting whatever’s in the cassette player fill the car. _The Song Remains the Same._ It’s the same tape he had in the car when he last drove it eight months ago.

 

He turns onto Route 181. He stamps down the anger, determined to let it out through ganking a ghost, helping a family. If that doesn’t work, well, then maybe he’ll debate bringing it up, bear seeing disappointment in Sam’s eyes. Maybe even the fear of being caught. Then he’d bear his own disappointment.

 

The song switches to _Dazed and Confused_. If Cas notices the hitch in Dean’s breath, he doesn’t say anything.

 

Glen Elder is only forty minutes away, which normally would feel like no time at all, but today Dean is antsy and time seems to drag on, approaching a meaninglessness that has Dean tapping to the beats of the songs that play and methodically checking the time as it ticks on. The house they’re heading for is by the edge of Waconda Lake, an old, forgotten home that has been mostly emptied of furniture and possessions. The husk of a house belonged to Jillian Webber, who died of natural causes a month and a half ago. None of her children fulfilled her dying wish of the home continuing to be a family property, instead putting it on the market. Not that it was selling. Jillian had been attacking any prospective buyers and real estate agents that stepped beyond the threshold. She had been cremated, most of her belongings removed from the property, but the attacks were still localized to the home.

 

Dean pulls up beside the empty house, the Impala lurching over the rocky, uneven driveway. He forces a smirk in Cas’ direction. “Five bucks there’s some gold hidden in the floorboards.”

 

Cas doesn’t crack a smile. Instead, he shoves a necklace in Dean’s direction, a bundle of charms hanging from its chain.

 

“Wear this,” he says.

 

“Why?” Dean asks, curiosity and wariness spiking. “We being tracked?”

 

“Just a precaution,” Cas replies, pulling an identical charm out from under his shirt. “We’ve been wearing them outside the bunker.”

 

Dean has a million more questions, but Cas opens the door and exits the car before he can have a chance to work the words around his mouth. He huffs and follows suit, moving toward the trunk of the car. He lifts the false floor and is astounded how everything is exactly the same as he remembers it being. Did no one even touch the Impala when he was gone?

 

He hands Cas a can of gas and an iron rod, tucking one for himself under his arm and holding a sawed-off full of rock salt in his hands. He closes the trunk and moves toward the house, motioning for Cas to follow him with a jerk of his neck. It’s only the late afternoon, sunset some ways off as it’s nearing the end of summer. Glen Elder is a tiny city, though, and the only sounds around for at least a mile are that of crickets and frogs down by the water. As he picks the lock of the door, letting it swing open into a dark, open house, he feels a wave of calm. If he closes his eyes, he could almost believe he was twelve years younger, moving through an abandoned home with Sammy just behind him, a team well-oiled and not as well weathered. He can almost hear the jokes they don’t make anymore.

 

Instead, he hears a creak in the staircase leading upstairs, and Cas’ near silent breathing behind him.

 

“We’re looking for an object her spirit could be tied to,” Dean says, like it’s not obvious. “Just grab anything that looks…ornate, I dunno.”

 

Cas nods, but makes no move to split from Dean’s side. Dean groans under his breath and moves upstairs, trying not to bristle too much when Cas follows him. They collect whatever personal belongings are left in the house, which isn’t saying much. The place is practically picked clean, and after twenty minutes of searching all they have are a few plates of china, a teapot, a fucking candlestick, and a fancy looking old hairpin. There’s no gold in the basement – there’s nothing, just concrete and an obsolete-looking washing machine. When they climb the stairs again, Dean looks out the back window at the yard. There’s a drying line across the length of the grass, swaying lightly in the wind. The sun peaks through the trees to shine upon the lake. If he looks hard enough, he can see dust and bits of pollen caught in the stream of light. It’s a peaceful spot.

 

Cas dumps all of the artifacts in an empty brick fireplace in the living room, opening the flume and starting to dump gasoline over them. Dean tears himself away from the window and walks toward him. There’s a leftover candle on a neglected side table, and an old standing lamp next to a space that obviously used to hold some sort of chair. He side-steps to grab the neck of the lamp, and a chill washes over the house, turning their breath frosty. Dean rolls his eyes.

 

“A fucking lamp?” He growls. “Really?”

 

Jillian evidently doesn’t approve of his criticism of her choice of soul-binding objects, because the next second the mantle above the fireplace is detaching itself from the wall and launching at Dean’s face. He ducks the projectile, turning back into a standing position as a flickering specter appears in the doorway to the kitchen. Geez, this woman was _tiny_.

 

Dean fires off a round of rock salt at her, but she flickers out before appearing at Dean’s side. He tosses the lamp at Cas, who catches it and breaks it in two, dumping it in the burning pile. The ghost roars, moving toward the fireplace, but Dean slashes his iron rod through her. Dean grabs the candle off the side table and chucks it in the pile for good measure, grabbing the gas can off the ground and splashing more on the objects.

 

Jillian appears again, grabbing the back of Dean’s shirt and throwing him at the nearest wall. He nearly loses his grip on his sawed off, and he does drop his iron rod, making a hitched, hurt noise in the back of his throat. When he looks up, Cas is staring at him, a lit match frozen in his hand, completely oblivious to the ghost coming up behind him with a silver blade.

 

A silver blade that looks suspiciously like an angel blade. Like the one that is usually stashed in Dean’s jacket, which is conveniently missing.

 

“Watch it!” Dean yells. Or, he means to yell. What comes out instead is an unintelligible noise of anger and warning, and Cas drops the match as he ducks. Dean’s sawed-off blast catches Jillian, whisking her away, and the match catches on the gas. The pile of artifacts lights aflame, and the lights of the house flicker on and off, the pained cries of an old woman echoing in the walls before they finally die out. They wait a moment to be sure, and then Dean is up on his feet again, snarling as he advances on Castiel. He grabs the angel’s lapel in his fist, bringing him close to his face and shaking him.

 

“Watch over me?” He spits, his voice low and dangerous. “Look out for your fucking self.”

 

He shoves Cas away from him, moving toward the door. “Make yourself useful and call the cops, or whoever the fuck, tell them there was an animal in here but it’s gone now, they can sell the house.”

 

Killing the ghost didn’t make him feel better. Throwing the weapons back in the trunk doesn’t either. He starts the stereo as they pull onto the main road, driving back toward Lebanon. It starts to play _Communication Breakdown_ , and he slams his palm against the player in frustration, ejecting the cassette. He tosses it in the backseat, digging out an ACDC tape and shoving it in instead. Cas at least has the mind to look somewhat embarrassed, his posture slouched inward and his head bowed, eyes focused out the window. They drive the whole way home without saying a word, the atmosphere fractured and shifting. The sun sets on the way back, the Impala rolling into the garage just as the stars are beginning to show themselves with the shine of the moon. Dean doesn’t want to go back inside. He wants to walk to the nearest cornfield, breathe fresh air and look up at the sky until he’s not afraid of expanse anymore. He wants to hear the swaying of the wind instead of the stifling silence and his heartbeat in his ears.

 

He stomps into the library, Castiel on his heels. Sam and Jack are at the table, as if they haven’t fucking moved all day. Sam’s on the phone, and he quickly spits out a goodbye before hanging up with one look at Dean’s face.

 

“Looks like the hunt went well,” Sam says dryly.

 

“Just peachy,” Dean barks. “Did everything myself.”

 

“Dean –” Cas sighs. Jack’s eyebrows are raised.

 

“I’m not made of glass!” Dean shouts, feeling the anger bubble over. He wants to ask for it to wait, to dilute itself, but it boils in his throat, violent and concentrated. Sam’s face immediately shuts down into a serious visage. “Stop treating me like I’m so fucking fragile.”

 

“What happened?” Jack asks.

 

“This moron,” Dean points a finger at Cas. Now Cas looks angry, too. Good. “Nearly got himself killed because he was looking out for me. When he didn’t need to.”

 

“I’m sure he was just watching your back,” Sam crosses his arms. “You know, like we’re supposed to?”

 

“Don’t talk,” Dean growls, and Sam’s face flickers. “You sent him to babysit me.”

 

“We go out on hunts in teams of two,” Sam retorts. “It’s what we do.”

 

“Since when? Sorry, I didn’t attend the Sam’s Hunter Protocol Orientation.”

 

“You haven’t been out on a hunt in a long time,” Cas reasons. “I just want you to recover fully and appropriately –”

 

“I can’t do that if you hover over my shoulder on the simplest hunt. I can’t do that if you hide things from me.” Dean’s chest flutters. There it is.

 

“Hide things from you?” Jack’s voice is confused. Maybe he’s in the dark, too. Makes sense. Under all of his wear and tear, he’s just a kid. They all know that. “We haven’t –”

 

“Then what’s going on out there?” Dean asks, voice raised and strained. “Why don’t you want me to know? To leave?”

 

“Dean, we’re,” Sam sighs, drags a hand over his face. He stands so he can match Dean and Cas. “We’re trying to protect you.”

 

“From what?” The fear is pulsing in Dean’s throat, now. The certainty, the terror. He pulls at the necklace around his neck, snapping the chain. He shakes it wildly. “What is this for? What don’t I know?”

 

“Dean, it’s just –”

 

“Don’t lie to me!” Dean cries. He throws the necklace on the ground, stomping on it. He’s throwing a tantrum now, that’s what it looks like, he knows, but he can’t stop. His motions suddenly still, all of his muscles stationary and smooth. This is when he is most dangerous. He looks up at his family. “Why are you keeping me here?”

 

“Keeping you?” Sam balks. “You’re not a prisoner here. We’re never going to _make_ you stay, you gotta know that. We all understand feeling trapped.”

 

“But you’re hiding me,” Dean says. “You don’t want me to go too far, keep me on a tight leash.”

 

“A leash?” Cas asks, incredulous. There’s an harsh bite to his voice, a hurt anger that Dean knows how to exploit. “Dean, no.”

 

Something creaks in Dean’s lungs. He can feel the fear in his shoulders, climbing to the top of his spine. He feels his dread nestled in the nooks of every vertebra. If he says it aloud, he will speak it into existence. But he knows it will come, no matter what he does. He swallows slowly, convulsively.

 

“Just tell me. Tell me you’re hiding me, because Michael is still out there.”

 

Everyone’s faces are wash in shock, terror, and misunderstanding. “What?” Sam asks, voice hoarse. He blinks a few times, reigning in himself. “Dean, no. Michael is dead. We killed him. You know that.”

 

Killed Michael. Just like that. Lucky.

 

“If Gabriel can fake a death, Michael can too,” Dean argues. “You gotta be honest with me. You’re keeping me in here, in the Impala, with an amulet, to keep me from being found. To keep Michael away from me. So he doesn’t get me again.”

 

“Dean,” Cas says, stepping forward closer to Dean. Sam’s Adams’ apple is bobbing erratically. Jack looks sick. “Michael is dead. I promise you that. I am not lying to you.”

 

God, try as he may, Dean doesn’t believe him.

 

“We have been keeping things from you,” Sam says, and Jack whips his head to him. “But I swear, you are not in danger of being possessed by Michael again. We triple checked. He’s dead. There are…people, out there, that recognize your body, your face, that know Michael was behind what’s happening outside. That think it was you. We just wanted to wait until maybe it all blows over. It’s…it’s bad out there.”

 

“I know,” Dean says. He feels jittery, nervous. Sam looks sad, the shadows under his eyes prominent. They never really fade. “I…I looked it up. All the cities. People. More than you said.”

 

“We didn’t know how you’d react,” Cas’ voice is calm and low. Dean wishes he’d be angry with him. He knows how to argue with Cas, to rile him up. It’s easier. “When you’d be ready to know. We didn’t even know if you’d ever hunt again, Dean.”

 

“That’s my decision to make,” Dean’s voice is shaky. The shadows in the corners start to climb out further into his vision, and his pulse is audible again. “I get to choose. Don’t…don’t decide things for me, don’t keep me in the dark. It feels like, it’s just like…I can’t breathe.”

 

“Dean?” Jack stands now, too, voice concerned. Dean drives the edges of his palms into his eyes. Finds the breath.

 

“I don’t know what he did, the second time around. But I felt,” Each of the men around him are starkly silent, focusing on him. He wants to throw up. “Everything. I couldn’t see, or hear, or smell, but he made me feel it. How I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t eat. Drink. Sleep. He wouldn’t let me die. I couldn’t die.”

 

He removes his hands from his eyes to see the stormy faces around him. He takes a ragged breath. He hasn’t said a word about his second run with Michael before now, how it affected his mind as well as his body. The first time, his body had been fine, but that was just because Michael wanted him to find hope before he ripped it away. He knows that he confided in Sam about the drowning, but this time, every time he tried to get the words out, he lost the air. Somehow, he finds it now.

 

“If he’s still out there, if there’s a chance he could still be out there, you have to let me know. He used me to spy on us, to get ahead of us. He. I can’t…that can’t happen again.”

 

“Michael is dead,” Sam croaks. “I know you want proof. I wish you could have seen it happen, could have done it yourself. But you’ll have to take our word for it. Just trust me.”

 

Castiel steps forward, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. “Dean, I am…so sorry he did this to you.”

 

Dean blinks away emotion, pushing away the doubt that still tendrils around his chest. “Then you gotta let me do something about this. It’s my responsibility to get out of here and fix what Michael did. This shit, it’s on me.”

 

Sam frowns. “No, it isn’t. Dean, you don’t have to do anything. Haven’t you done enough?”

 

Dean’s expression turns stormy, and he begins to turn away. “Yeah, I guess I have.”

 

Cas grips his shoulder tighter. “Dean, wait. That is not what he meant, and you know that.”

 

“I want to do something, too,” Jack says. “I’ve been _trying_ to do something. But even though the world knows about the supernatural, that doesn’t mean they’re willing to let us fix the problem. Especially when they think we caused it.”

 

“That’s what they said when the first apocalypse happened,” Dean says. “And we found a way.”

 

“Why do we have to?” Sam puts a hand on the table, arm muscles tensing. “Dean, we’re working on it. We have people working on damage control, Mom, Bobby, the others. We’re going to figure this out, and you can help, I just. Why can’t you just rest?”

 

“I’ve been resting for two months,” Dean asserts.

 

“People with broken bones rest longer,” Cas says. “You’re pushing yourself. I do not understand why. I do not wish to try, I know that I cannot understand, but you have to let yourself slow down.”

 

Slow down. The aspect of being stationary sends panic fluttering through his stomach, but he understands he’s been going full throttle, or as much as he can under the circumstances. He’s not sure how to not do that.

 

“We’re happy you’re back with us, Dean.” Jack smiles, his eyes wet. “I didn’t know if I was ever going to be able to speak with you again. Watch movies with you. Drink a beer with you.”

 

“Yeah, well, I’m here now,” Dean coughs, suddenly uncomfortable with the display of affection. The electricity on his skin asks him to flee. “I’ll try to tone it down, okay? But I ain’t gonna stop, not if I can help. I gotta…I gotta take a walk.”

 

“Can I come with you?” Sam asks. Dean nods. “Alright. Hold down the fort, Jack. Pick out a movie you wanna watch, maybe. I’ll watch it with you when we get back.”

 

Jack smiles, giving Dean a weird, probably meant to be supportive gesture before leaving, heading toward the den. Cas tightens his grip on Dean’s shoulder, and he turns to the angel. Cas looks into his eyes, gaze unwavering.

 

“Dean, I am sorry if I made you feel stuck, or weak. Not having you here, it was…I am very happy you are healing. I am wary, but confident. We will fix this. Thank you for returning to us.”

 

Dean smiles briefly, shying away from the stare. “Oh, well, ya’know. I could never leave you geeks behind.”

 

He and Cas share another look, and this time it’s less intense, more calming. Dean feels echoes of gentle touches on his back and feels comforted. Sam shoves his hands into his pockets, waiting for Dean to be ready before climbing the stairs and exiting out the bunker’s front door. The sun is fully set now, and they can see the stars; Dean immediately picks out Orion and the Big Dipper, and nudges Sam with his shoulder.

 

“Remember when I taught you the constellations, Sammy?”

 

Sam huffs. “I guarantee I know more constellations than you, Dean.”

 

Dean shrugs. “That’s just because I only care to remember the cool ones.”

 

They walk through the forest to the edge of the nearby cornfield, standing in the sparse line between maize and trees. A warm wind casts its way through, reminding Dean’s skin of simple feelings. Simple reminders that he’s here. He looks at Sam, but his brother is gazing out over the expanse of the field, into the stars beyond. When he looks out to see the same vantage point, Sam turns his head toward him.

 

“Lucifer didn’t do that to me,” Sam begins, and Dean frowns, looking at him. “He didn’t…lock me away. Mostly it was just all mind games.”

 

“Guess they got different styles,” Dean tries to joke. It falls flat.

 

“What I’m trying to say is, I can’t understand. Just like you can’t understand my time with Lucifer. But I don’t want you to feel like you can’t trust me,” Sam continues. “Or Cas. And I get that this is been hard, that it’s different than anything else. You didn’t die and get resurrected, again, like me. You’re not an angel, like Cas. I don’t expect you to be the same. And I’m sorry I lied. I just. I don’t want to lose you again, not yet.”

 

Dean feels a nervousness settle and dissipate into his bloodstream. The night is jet black, but is illuminated by the subtle piercings of the stars. The constellations provide a surface he can swim towards. “I trust you, Sammy.”

 

Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m thirty-six, Dean. I think you can call me Sam, now.”

 

“Not Samuel?” Dean mocks, and Sam scoffs out a laugh.

 

“Shut up.”

 

They walk along the field, listening to the sounds of the bugs and the wind, kicking rocks along where they find them. At one point, Dean steps on the back of Sam’s shoe, giving him a flat tire, and Sam shoves at him in retaliation.

 

“You think we can fix this?” Dean asks. He coughs into his elbow, but Sam waits for him to finish.

 

“Yeah, I do.” Sam rubs the back of his neck. “It’s messy, and bureaucratic, and I’m sort of playing lawyer for the entire hunting community, but I do.”

 

“Finally putting that education to work, huh?”

 

“You know I never actually went to law school, right?”

 

“So what, I just gotta play secret agent for awhile, keep under cover?” Dean delivers a shit-eating grin he hasn’t felt himself give in a long time. “I always knew I’d make a great Bond.”

 

Sam shoves him again, and he trips over a rock and stumbles. He hears the jangle of Sam’s charm on his chest, the absence of his own. The stars swirl into darkness with the motion, and his vision swims. His chest clenches and he coughs, doubling over and hacking into the crook of his elbow. He scrubs at his face, breathing hard. His ears are ringing, which is stupid. All he did was trip over a rock. This didn’t happen before, on the hunt, when he was outside the bunker. He feels his humor crawl up and descend down his throat, choking him.

 

Sam stills behind him. “Dean? Are you okay?”

 

Dean blinks, sees the stars flicker in and out of his vision. He tries to breathe, tries to bring it back. His hands are shaking. 

 

“Dean?”

 

His posture straightens, and he turns around.

 

.

 

_end_

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading! This is my first fic I've written in at least six months if not longer, it's really difficult for me to write creatively while at school. If you liked it I'd really enjoy a comment, and if you want to chat feel free to connect with me on tumblr, my username there is themostexcellentfinder.
> 
> Thank you for stopping by :)


End file.
